


your call

by TheSpaceCoyote



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [11]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Teen Romance, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 01:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: It's not unusual for Armitage to show up at Ben's house, even this late at night.But something's wrong.





	your call

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with more sad BenArmie. For this Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt, I went with "Hidden Scar."
> 
> Sort of a different take on the same universe and dynamic that [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932952) explores. Though they're still separate entities!

Ben walks out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, just in time to hear his phone vibrate against his desk. Puzzled, he steps over the backpack strewn across the floor and snatches it up, checking the illuminated screen to find a text from Armie.

_> >> 10:47pm_

_are you awake?_

It’s not too weird to hear from him this late at night, especially on a weekend. He and Armie text all the time, chatting about school or movies or nonsense, really. But it’s better than nothing, and Ben has few other friends he can talk with outside of classes and extracurriculars.

_> >>10:48pm_

_sure am whats up_

Ben cradles his phone in his palm as he sits on the bed, towel still draped over his thighs. The rain that’s been lashing his neighborhood all evening seems to have lessened to a trickle in the past hour, though the night outside still looks pretty cold and miserable.

His phone buzzes once more.

_> >>10:48pm_

_would it be alright if i came over?_

It’s not necessarily unusual for Armie to come over, even so late in the evening. Considering it’s the weekend, it’s even less strange, though usually they plan it out beforehand. Ben has nothing better to do, however, and having Armie over would certainly brighten a fairly dully and rainy night.

_> >> 10:49pm_

_yeah sure lemme know when ur here_

Ben tosses the phone back on the bed and rises, figuring he has a moment to get ready. He rummages through his chest of drawers for a pair of sweatpants, tying them low about his hips. His phone lights up with another notification, and he picks it back up.

_> >>10:52pm_

_im outside. can i come up?_

Outside? Already? Their houses were at least twenty minutes apart, and Armie didn’t even own a car. He had a _bike_ but that wouldn’t shave off that much time. So how was he here?

Ben glances to his window, where droplets of water still cling and glimmer in the moonlight. At least it’d stopped raining. He hopes Armie hasn’t been waiting that long.

_> >>10:53pm_

_one sec_

Ben looks around his room, suddenly conscious of the mess. If he leaves things like this he won’t hear the end of it, so he scurries about, trying to do some last minute clean-up. He scrapes loose shirts and jeans and socks off the floor and stuffs them into the closet, before tossing couple old receipts and empty snack wrappers that’ve accumulated on his desk into the garbage. He rolls his free weights towards the walls, getting them out of the way so Armie won’t trip on them and crack his skull.

Finally he pulls on a tank and hoodie, tousling his still wet hair as he heads out of his room and downstairs. He pads quietly through the house, knowing which floorboards to avoid, which doors to treat especially gently lest they creak. Both his parents should be sound asleep but it’s best not to take chances. He doesn’t want them sending Armie home if he’s already made the trip here.

He prowls to the front door and unlocks it as quietly as he can, peeking out onto the porch. The dim orange light just barely illuminates where Armie paces dully on the bottom steps with his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He stops in his tracks and looks up when the door opens, hopping up onto the porch like a lost animal waiting for food. 

Ben thinks it’s weird he isn’t wearing a jacket, or really anything to protect him from the cold apart from a dark grey turtleneck. He can see Armie shivering, hair lightly dusted with dew, and wishes he’d brought one of his hoodies down to wrap around him. Good thing it’s warm inside the house.

“Hey.” Ben waves awkwardly, not sure what else to do with his hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

“S’okay,” Armie mumbles, arms squeezing tighter around himself. Ben stands aside to let him in, quickly closing the door behind them. His eyes fall to Armie’s back and thinks it might be good to put his hand there so he can guide his friend through the dark inside the house, but he stops himself and instead rubs the back of his neck.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to see you,” Armie admits, hunching his shoulders inwards as he adapts to the sudden warmth. “That’s fine, right?”

“Oh yeah. Just gonna have to explain to mom and dad in the morning.” Ben leads the way back to the staircase, stopping only briefly to nod towards the kitchen.

“You hungry or anything? We probably can’t turn on the stove or microwave without waking the parents but there’s probably some snacks or something. If you want.”

Armie shakes his head.

“No…can we just go up to your room?”

“Sure.” Ben’s still full from dinner anyway, he just wants to make sure Armie actually eats. He knows he has a tendency to skip meals for studying, or just because he forgets.

He hopes Armie won’t notice how messy his room is, as despite the earlier manic cleanup Ben knows it’s really not up to his friend’s standards. Armie’s space back at his house looks crisp and tidy, almost barely lived-in—a real contrast to Ben’s chaotic den, walled in by music posters and lit by only one lamp.

“You want me to turn something on? It’ll be fine as long as I keep the volume low.” Ben gropes for the remote on the desk when Armie hums in vague agreement, sinking down besides the other boy as he flicks on the television. Ben flips around until finding some older-looking movie he feels Armie might like. From the amount of gray men in suits that walk into frame it’s probably one of those political thriller films from the forties he’s always trying to get Ben to watch.

 _Well._ No time like the present. Armie’s acting a little off, so hopefully this will cheer him up.

But when Ben looks over to him, he finds Armie’s not looking at the screen, eyes instead downcast upon where his hands fold in his lap. He hasn’t really reacted at all since sitting down, not to the television or Ben’s presence.

Concern worries in his stomach but Ben knows better not to pry when Armie’s shut off like this. They’ve been friends for years but he’s still pretty private, and tends to react fairly negatively when Ben tries to get past his walls. The only _real_ fights they’ve ever had stemmed from that, so Ben’s learned to back off whenever Armie’s sending out serious “don’t talk to me” vibes.

Still, he can’t help but wonder where this all comes from. They’ve been friends for years but Ben doesn’t know all that much about his home life or what happened before he moved to town. Hell, Ben’s been to his house a handful of times and he’s still never met Armie’s stepmom nor any other member of his family apart from his dad.

Ben’s not a fan of Brendol Hux, so he’s not quite complaining that he hardly gets a chance to visit Armie at home.

He leans back, propping himself up as he half-watches the roundtable of suits arguing on the television, wondering if he should say something but not sure what. Armie remains still, sitting on the edge of the bed with his fingers rubbing the hem of his sweater. But just as Ben opens his lips to break the silence Armie suddenly leans back and turns to rest his head against his shoulder.

Ben’s heart jumps in surprise at the contact, expecting Armie to excuse this kind of intimacy like he usually does, but he stays quiet and only turns his nose against Ben’s shoulder, inhales like minute kisses against the fabric of his hoodie.

Ben watches, a little stunned. He’s never seen Armie this openly affectionate before. He’s generally pretty aloof about physical contact, though Ben’s got him to open up a little more in recent years. But definitely not enough for this degree of friendly cuddling. Or so he thought.

Ben wonders if something’s caused this change of heart—as well as the unexpected late night visit.

But he’s not exactly in the mood to rebuke it. Really Ben’s long pined for this kind of closeness with Armie, to fill in the last space missing in their friendship. He tilts his chin down, watching the reflection of the television play across Armie’s pale skin. He can tell he’s still not watching the movie all that closely, but that hardly matters when they’re cuddled up like this.

Ben inhales slowly, careful not to disturb his resting friend too much, though the pounding of his heart might’ve already done so.

 _Wow._ Armie’s hair smells nice. Ben hopes that’s not too weird to think that, as it’s just hard not to notice when he’s leaning against him. He turns his head slightly, inhaling the sweet scent and trying to figure out what exactly it is. Lemon, and maybe a hint of something more herbaceous.

Ben doesn’t ask, afraid Armie might find it weird if he does. He continues silently fixating on his friend’s hair, almost completely dried now that he’s out of the rain. It looks soft, so unlike the typical style Armie wears it in. Not that Ben dislikes the slicked-back, private school look, but there’s something a lot more genuine about Armie whenever he wears his hair down.

An urge flickers to the forefront of Ben’s mind, spurred by the sight and smell of Armie’s hair. At first he quashes it and scolds himself, but steadily his hand lifts from the bedspread, unable to resist resting atop Armie’s head.

Ben slowly starts combing through his hair, at first just barely letting his fingertips dip through Armie’s feathery ginger locks, as if he’s afraid he might spook him. But he doesn’t pull away, or even comment on how Ben’s touching him. He doesn’t stiffen or twitch, only relaxing against Ben as he lightly skates his fingers against his scalp.

Soon he’s stroking through Armie’s hair properly, loving how soft it feels against his palm, how his friend almost melts against him. _Just like a cat_ , Ben thinks with a smile, remembering the time they’d encountered a stray while walking home from class—years back, barely on the cusp of middle school.

Armie had convinced him to use his jacket to wrap up the poor thing once they’d coaxed her out from beneath a rain-soaked bush, insisting he couldn’t use his own blazer to keep the cat warm. Ben hadn’t complained, more amused by the stray’s orange coat and how closely it matched Armie’s fiery hair than upset about his sodden jacket.

He remembers they gave the cat away once she’d been nursed back to health. Armie had grown quite fond of her, even purchasing a few toys and a collar with his allowance, but argued his father would never approve of a pet. Ben would’ve taken her if not for the fact that his dad already owned a dog that didn’t exactly play well with others— _especially_ felines.

He knows Armie still wants a cat. Maybe someday when he moves out of his dad’s house he can have one.

Ben continues to brush through Armie’s hair, nearly losing himself in the soothing motion. His fingers now thread at the locks close to the top of his head, properly petting him. Armie feels so loose and weightless against him, completely relaxed and trusting Ben as he touches him.

Elation fills his chest, and Ben can’t stop himself from smiling. It feels right to keep close to Armie like this, to comfort him through whatever’s going on, because something _always_ seems to be going on with him. He wishes Armie would open up a little more sometimes and let Ben know what he’s feeling but this—this is good. This is a start.

Then his finger brushes against something strange on his friend’s scalp.

Ben pauses for a moment, fingertips feeling out the edge of something firm and raised out of Armie’s skin. But as he tries to touch more of it, lips parting in confusion, Armie tenses and jerks away from his shoulder. Ben catches a glimpse of his friend’s wide eyes and trembling lip before Armie pushes himself up off the bed. He clenches both his fists, voice hurried and wavering as he speaks. 

“I—I have to go, this was a _mistake_ —“

Ben’s up in a flash, longer stride quickly putting him right up behind Armie, who’s trying to grasp the doorknob with shaky hands. He doesn’t quite get it turned before he’s pulling on it, jolting the door against the jamb and sending a shudder through the house that might wake up Ben’s parents. Fear jolts through the teen’s chest, and he reaches out.

“No, Armie, _wait_ —“

Ben grabs his wrist and pulls without thinking. To his horror Armie reacts instantly, a muted cry ringing from his throat like it’s hurt him. Ben instantly lets him go but instead of running away Armie shrinks down, arms wrapping back around his chest.

There’s some kind of shootout scene ringing on the television, the beginnings of climactic showdown between the enemy spy and the hero flashing across the carpet as Ben quickly kneels at Armie’s side, hands floating above his shoulders. He doesn’t know what to do, or whether the labored breathing wracking his friend’s body is all his fault.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Ben stammers out the apology, struggling to find the right words. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m so s—“

Armie weakly lifts his head, interrupting him.

“N-No, no. You didn’t. You don’t have to be…” He clears his throat, voice returning with just a shred more composure. “ _I’m_ sorry. That…that was uncalled for.”

He tries to sit up straight, expression falling with shame as if he’s only now realizing Ben witnessed his outburst. The wear on his face is alarmingly clear now, and Ben’s concern grows as he takes in each new sign. The sallow cheeks, the bruises under his eyes and—most alarming of all—a puffy little cut on the slope below his chin.

“I really should leave. You’re not—you don’t have to deal with me.” Armie continues as he turns away from Ben’s gaze. His fingers anxiously stroke through his hair, trying to push the mussed locks back into their usual place.

“Don’t, please.” Ben curls his fingers against his palm, still hesitant to place his hand on Armie’s shoulder—or anywhere else, no matter how much he wants to.

“I shouldn’t have touched you there. I’m really sorry. I didn’t know…whatever it was…I didn’t know it would freak you out so much.” He doesn’t know if any of his apologies will get Armie to believe him, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Gradually, Armie sits back off his knees, though his arms stay guarded around his body. He rubs his hands along the bend of his elbows, like he’s still cold despite sitting in the musty warmth of the bedroom. Ben’s heart pangs as the fabric of Armie’s sweater pulls along the thinness of his limbs. 

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, I—I didn’t even think about it. It felt so nice for you to…” Armie trails off into silence, letting his eyes flutter shut. Outside the rain has started once more, rattling softly against the house. The movie too has reached a lulling denouement, the sounds of polished professional voices fading as Ben focuses his full attention on Armie.

He doesn’t know what’ll happen now, what he should say or _do_. He realizes Armie probably wants to let it go, bury it away like a childish embarrassment and never speak of it again. Like he always does. It’s probably easier, less terrifying to forget about it and just go back to watching the movie until they fall asleep and let dreams wash away these troubles.

But Ben can’t stop thinking about that thing—that _scar_ on Armie’s head, hidden under the beguiling locks of hair.

_How long has it been there?_

“I just—“ Ben swallows past the tightness in his throat that’s grown in the silence, “—want to help you if I can. If you need to—I mean—”

“Ben.” Armie’s eyes open, and he shakes his head with a dead chuckle. “You don’t want to know about what happens.”

“But I do. If you want to tell me I—I’ll listen.” Ben finally pushes past his own hangups and reaches out, resting his hand on his friend’s knee. “I promise.”

Armie stares beneath his weighted eyelids, dully focused on the broad knuckles of his friend’s hand. Ben flinches inwardly, wondering if this touch will go over as well as the last one, if Armie will again push him away and run. He waits, struggling to be patient, struggling to give Armie time.

Finally, he shifts and leans back against the bedroom door, shoulders rising with a weighty breath. Armie’s lips tighten together, a last ditch effort to hold back what threatens to spill out of him. Ben scoots a little closer, palm rubbing down his friend’s thigh, hoping his presence is helpful.

“My—my father has this damned ring. From his military days. Big old gaudy thing.” Armie emphasizes the shape with his hand. “Engraved and solid. He likes to wear it on his forefinger, fidget it over the knuckle.”

Ben vaguely remembers something like that from the few times he’s encountered Brendol, though he never took much notice of the specifics. The man’s a arrogant windbag, dressed with like he thinks he’s some the last beacon of aristocracy in the modern day. Always looking down his nose at those around him, even his own son—like gaudy jewelry and a pompous attitude makes him the better man.

“Things weren’t great when I was younger,” Armie continues, voice just above a drone. “I mean, they’re not great n—well, they were _worse_ back then, right after he married my stepmother. They fought a lot. Sometimes I got in the way.”

Ben’s stomach sinks, but he dares not stop Armie, even though he dreads where this is leading. He watches as his friend swallows harshly, expression trembling. 

“I don’t remember much of it, but I know that he hit me when I tried to get them to stop once. He got so angry he…punched me in the head.” Armie mimes the action with a numb fist. “Just…like he didn’t care what might happen to me after.”

Anger flares up inside Ben at the confirmation of his worst fears, calling all sorts of terrible images to the forefront of his mind. _His_ Armie, just a kid, indifferently assaulted by his own father. He’s always found Brendol Hux unpleasant, the tension Ben senses between him and his son all but confirmed whenever Armie complains about him. But he would’ve never guessed that the animosity ran that horribly deep. 

Armie lifts his hand to the side of his head, where Ben had found the scar, fingers twitching as if afraid to touch it, as if it still hurts him.

“I needed stitches. I was only five, and I needed _thirteen_ stitches for what he did to me,” Armie spits.

Rage roils in Ben’s stomach, nearly making him ill. He’d only felt the edge of the ragged skin, barely touched upon the healed-over evidence of Armie’s pain. It must extend even further along his scalp, an inescapable reminder of what his father did to him.

“And that wasn’t the first time he did it. Or—“ Armie’s chest hitches, fingers digging into the arms of his sweater. “—or the last.”

He tips his head back against the bedroom door, finally looking Ben’s in the eyes. Despite his efforts to comb his hair back earlier it’s fallen across his forehead once more, suddenly looking thin and lifeless like the rains leaked in side and washed all the color out.

“Ben, it’s—it’s never going to _stop_ , is it?” Armie’s voice cracks out of the dull monotone, pain and frustration finally bleeding out as tears start to collect in his already reddened eyes. “If it hasn’t stopped by now, it’s not ever _going to_. Not until one us of _dies_.”

He palms his forehead, teeth gritting around his weak sobbing.

“I wish he was dead, why can’t he just die and leave me _alone_?” Armie gasps, his entire body shaking as tears crawl down his cheeks.

Ben’s never seen him cry, and it _hurts_. It’s not like that kind of healing crying, nor tears of relief at a weight lifted. It’s frustrated and crumbling Armie down right in front of him. It’s a cry for help, skinned of all pretense. 

In that moment Ben’s hands itch for a fight, for anything to help him deal with the sudden furious energy rolling through his body. He feels like he could scream and throw things, maybe even march to the Hux household through the rain and beat Brendol’s face in until the storm gutters ran with blood—

—but Armie _needs him_. He needs Ben’s warmth and strength and comforting presence. Not his boundless anger, nor his urge for vengeance.

Those will come later, when they’re rested and clear-thinking and ready to make a plan.

“Hey, _shh_. C’mon, don’t cry.” Ben tries to keep his voice even, to push away the rage that bubbles up for his friend’s sake. “You’re going to be alright.”

Armie snorts through his tears, disbelieving, but Ben leans in and wraps his arms around him before he can protest. He holds him close, one hand around Armie’s waist with the other pressed against the back of his head, pulling him away from the door and letting him rest against his shoulder. Ben feels him sniffle, body shivering as it slowly relaxes in his grasp.

Armie’s so much slighter than him, less bulked out with brawn—but Ben suddenly feels he’s the strongest person he’s ever met.

“I…” Ben starts, his own voice feeling roughed and hard to command as it brushes against the side of Armie’s head. “…I’m really glad you. Y’know. Came here tonight.”

It feels like a lame, inadequate thing to say after Armie’s spilled his guts out to him, but Ben can’t think of anything else. He really _is_ grateful that his friend is here, somewhere safe and away from the monster who calls himself his father. If Ben could, he’d keep Armie here for as long as he wanted to stay. He’d never have to go back to that house where Brendol could keep hurting him.

Armie sniffs, rubbing his face against Ben’s hoodie, before carefully pulling away. Despite the tears, he looks a little better now, even managing a weak smile that goes right to Ben’s heart. He wipes at his nose with his sleeve, letting out a soft sigh.

“I probably look a mess…sorry.”

“You really, really don’t have to apologize,” Ben stresses. “It’s late. And you look real good anyway.” Armie gives him a strange glance at the admission, but Ben quickly changes the subject.

“You wanna sleep in that,” he whispers as he rubs the shoulder of Armie’s sweater, “or do you need something else to change into?”

“Uh…I’m not sure any of your clothes would fit me…” Armie sniffs, even mustering a small laugh as he presumably envisions what Ben’s closet full of hoodies and baggy jeans might look like on him.

“Well you’ll just be sleeping in them, not going to meet the Queen for tea.” Ben affects a weak impression of Armie’s accent, hoping it’ll earn him more of that smile. It does get Ben a slight, amused eye-roll which is—all things considered—close enough.

“C’mon.” He helps Armie up off the floor, guiding him back to the bed to sit. “I’ll grab you something.”

Ben scrounges in his closet, finding a pair of pajama pants he’d gotten for one Christmas and never tried on, as well as the least worn of his collection of black graphic shirts. He gives it a quick sniff, before deciding it’s clean enough for Armie to wear and holds it out to him.

“Here.”

Armie takes the clothes with only a little bit of skepticism. Ben shrugs sheepishly, smoothing his hair back.

“They’re not _that_ bad, right _?”_

“Someone needs to teach you how to do laundry one of these days,” Armie _tsks_ , even as his fingers brush affectionately over the clothing. “It’s better than nothing,” he adds after a moment.

“That’s practically a compliment from you. Now go get changed before you fall asleep in your slacks.” Ben sends him off to the adjoining bathroom, before deciding to clean up the bed a little bit more. He pulls out a pillow wedged between the mattress and the wall, fluffing it up along with the rest before brushing the covers flat and grabbing an extra blanket folded up under the bed. Oddly, prepping the bed helps ground him, as he processes everything that’s happened tonight.

By the time he’s finished things up the bathroom light clicks off behind him. Ben turns around to see Armie crouching in the doorway, gingerly setting his old clothes and damp loafers upon the floor before shuffling towards him.

Both the shirt and pajama pants hang off his skinny frame, making Armie look a lot smaller than he actually is and—honestly?—pretty adorable. Ben’s almost thankful for the dim light in his room, because otherwise Armie might see him blushing.

“Not half bad.” Ben nods his approval, patting the covers beside him. “This could be a new look for you. We could match.”

Armie rolls his eyes and comes to sit on the bed, the cuffs of the pants pooling over his bare feet.

“I wouldn’t dare. The world doesn’t need _two_ Ben Solos on its hands.” He smirks, before reclining back against the bed. Armie stays that way for a couple moments, chest rising and falling gently with his breath, before pulling his legs up onto the bed and curling onto his side. His hair splays out slightly over Ben’s dark bedcovers, contrast making it more vibrant. He looks so soft, so vulnerable lying in Ben’s bed, and when Armie’s eyes lift up and lock with his he’s _sure_ his blush could glow through even the deepest darkness.

Ben shuts off the television, now playing the end of the movie’s credits, before lying down besides the other boy **.** Ben faces him, only a moment of doubt flickering between them before he reaches out and pulls Armie in close. Ben would’ve never dared to hold him like this before tonight, too afraid of how his friend might respond—but it feels like their relationship has shifted a little bit, at least to warrant a deeper sort of intimacy. A crack in Armie’s hardened armor has opened, and Ben fits into it perfectly.

The rain continues outside, drawing glistening patterns against the window. It looks and sounds cold, and Ben wonders if it’ll continue into the next day or break once morning dawns, showing the sun through the clouds.

He nudges his nose into Armie’s hair, hand brushing over his back and feeling the slope of his body beneath his palm. He still smells of citrus and herbs, a bright aromatic spot in the dark musk of the bedroom. Even half-asleep and clad in Ben’s spare clothing, he brightens up the space between them.

Ben curls around his best friend, the person he cares most for in his life, slipping their legs together beneath the blankets. He feels he might be pushing his luck but he wants to be as close to Armie as possible, keeping him shielded and safe from everything out there that wants to hurt him.

It’s all Ben can do for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna try to work through the rest of these Bad Things Happen Bingo prompts, so hopefully expect more of those? Though with me it's a bit of a toss-up as to what I'll actually publish next. 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


End file.
